


People Like Us

by IronAndRags



Category: Harry Potter and the Methods of Rationality, Political RPF - US 20th c.
Genre: Gen, HPMOR, I'm aware that this is a truly ridiculous AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-03
Updated: 2019-01-05
Packaged: 2019-08-17 06:21:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16510988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IronAndRags/pseuds/IronAndRags
Summary: Harry James Potter-Evans-Verres is the first Republican Speaker of the House in a generation. He has plans to reshape America, and with it, the world. Only one man stands in his way: Slimy, charismatic, and quietly brilliant President Quinn Quirrell, the former Governor of Arkansas and one of Harry's few real friends in Washington. In pursuit of his perfect future, what will Harry be willing to sacrifice?





	1. People Like Me

"People like me are what stand between us and Auschwitz." - Newt Gingrich, 1994

The reporter liked that line. It was a good line, and Harry was proud to get a chance to use it. That was one of the nice things about rising to national prominence like this - reporters interview you! And then if you say something clever or shocking they scribble it down, and pretty soon it's in the newspaper! Your clever remarks and verbal firebombs didn't just vanish into thin air, the way they did in the meeting room. That feeling, of being _very aggressively noticed_ , was kind of like having a superpower.

Harry didn't know what it was like to have superpowers - unless you counted getting Ron Paul to shut up for thirty seconds (a superpower that Harry almost regretted he would never get a chance to use again. Paul having left the House, he'd probably be out of public life for good now. Oh well.) Superpowers required breakthroughs to find - and after a childhood of failed backyard experiments, Harry was sure that he did not have quite the talent set for making scientific breakthroughs. He still kept up with physics and math research, in a kind of recreational way; he was probably the first member to use one of those shiny Congressional office computers to access the arXiv. But Harry had realized some time in high school that he just didn't have the _patience_ for running experiment after experiment after experiment, failing and failing and failing the way that real scientists have to do. His attention had drifted, and he had become fascinated, instead, with history. Trying to reshape the world with a mad experiment was one way of going about things, but maybe there was an easier way: to study the most powerful, the most _influential_ men of the past two centuries, when "changing the world" was really on the table, and figure out what they had done right. How to copy it. With a rational, scientific approach, he would learn exactly how to become powerful.

Superpowers might require a breakthrough in science, but political powers were almost as fun, and all you needed for those was a ruthless disposition, a keen eye for strategy, and excellent social skills. In Harry's defense, when he conceived this plan, he figured the ruthlessness and strategy could substitute for most of his social skills deficit, if need be. That was one of the "eccentric" views of power he got from studying the great leaders of the 20th century: charisma is overrated, if you're willing to be _mean_ enough. In service of a good cause, of course.

Because that was the other half of the problem. Only sociopaths want power for its own sake, the key question was what to do once you got it. In this respect Stalin, Napoleon, Hitler, Roosevelt, et al. were a bad example. People still liked Roosevelt ( _certain_ kinds of people did), but Harry knew better. He had studied Rand and Rothbard and Sowell, and he was starting to get some ideas of his own. The first part of the puzzle: Stalin and Hitler and Napoleon and so on all fell prey to the easiest mistake of all, which is to convince yourself that because you're the one with power, you need to accrue more power to your office specifically. Regardless of whether it's a good idea, if the President is making the decisions, the power of the President to interfere in people's everyday lives will only increase and increase, whether it's a good idea or not. That was how the federal government of the United States got all the way from doing nothing but hanging pirates and minting money to handing out grocery money and setting Vietnamese villages on fire. It was a relentless flow of social and political power towards exactly those people who needed power the least.

So step one of being a heroic leader: reduce your own power, reduce the government's power. It's an inversion of a pervasive bias, and, therefore, a safe bet.

After college, of course, those prospects for world domination were looking fairly dismal. He enrolled in graduate school almost by default and got a PhD, became a professor and kept studying the great wars and leaders of the past. His colleagues used to laugh when Harry told them that someday, he, Professor Harry James Potter-Evans-Verres, was going to rule the world.

 _Well,_ he thought slyly to himself, collapsing into his armchair at the end of a long day campaigning, _I just might be the next Speaker of the House. Who's laughing now?_

It was almost intoxicating to think about: _Can you imagine, someone like me becoming Speaker? I could teach Republicans to take back all those powers that Presidents have stolen from Congress. We can balance the budget. We can make this country great again. Can you imagine what things will be like, with someone like me in charge?_


	2. The Jaws of Victory

He didn't deserve to win that year, but he did. Really it was the Republican party as a whole that won in 1994, but in Harry's mind it was a thoroughly personal victory. After all, he had managed the Contract With America rollout and half-ran the national campaign itself. And most importantly, he had positioned himself as the unassailable, inevitable choice for Speaker of the House. _Speaker Evans-Verres_ \-- well, no, he would use his campaign name: _Speaker Verres_.

Harry liked the sound of that. He liked the sound of that a lot. This was an incredibly important moment. That kind of power - the power of Speaker of the House of Representatives - was a truly major step towards world domination.

The Speakership vote, to Harry's relief (but not surprise), was an absolute breeze. The members loved him. They may have hated him personally, sure. But right now he had just guided them to their first House victory in almost half a century. The sitting speaker (Foley, that old fool) had been unseated. They were practically passing out cigars in the Republican caucus room.

Because who cares if people actually like you? Have an eye for strategy. Know when to nationalize. Raise the stakes, raise the stakes, raise the stakes. The way forward wouldn't be _easy_ , necessarily, but he knew how to go about it. The Potter-Evans-Verres way had won out. President Quirrell would have to negotiate with Republicans, now. Harry had his hands on the wheel of power.

If, and when, he made the calculated choice to seize more power - well, who could possibly stand in his way?

***

The White House residence was deadly silent while the results rolled in. President Quirrell insisted on keeping at least two screens in every room, cycling through as many news channels as possible. CNN. Fox. MSNBC. Some of them liked to call seats early, some liked to call them late. But the picture just got grimmer and grimmer.

When Tom Foley's seat was called for the Republican, Hermione Quirrell stood up, massaging her forehead in frustration and confusion. Quinn saw her grab a clean pad of paper and start to write, but he didn't look over. His eyes were trained on the screens.

"Quinn, they're going to have the subpoena power. I'm sure they'll investigate what happened to Barty Crouch, and maybe this 'Troopergate' stuff, and anything else that they can possibly get ahold of. We're going to need to be prepared. So for once, I'd like you to answer me straight: Is there anything else? Anything you haven't told me about?"

The President's eyes stayed fixed on the flickering screen. He was silent for a few moments, as if thinking very, very deeply. Then, speaking very slowly in his creaking Arkansas drawl and still not glancing in his wife's direction, he spoke these words: "We're going to need a new approach. To the entire project, not just the presidency."

"You didn't answer my question," Hermione said, looking up from her pad. But the President was just staring, straight ahead. If he was thinking right now in terms of the "entire project", she thought, that meant he was taking this setback very, very seriously.

His eyes remained fixed on the screen. She knew he was taking his own notes, the ones he would write down later, when he was alone, and keep folded up like tiny breadcrumbs. The exact locations of those were secret even from Hermione, but she strongly suspected that he kept them close to the nuclear football.

No, she thought, the two of them would be safe. If there was one thing certain in Hermione's mind, it was this: There was nobody in the world that could outwit Quinn Quirrell.

***

That night, after Hermione had gone to sleep, President Quirrell was up pacing the residence. Panetta had told him recently, joking, that he was wearing holes in all the carpets. In point of fact, this was not so. The President had actually inquired of the White House Curator how best to avoid damaging the White House carpets, given the speed and frequency of his pacing.

"I'd like to run when the weather is cold, or otherwise, without shedding shoes and ideally without running a ragged hole into any floor covering that belonged to Mary Todd Lincoln, or any other person whose vengeful spirit I might wish to avoid. Do I make myself clear?"

The curator had stammered and asked if the President was requesting advice (he was), and after a lot of pushing had produced the necessary maps.

President Quirrell knew where he was running. Hallway, Kitchen, Hallway, Bedroom, Hallway, Atrium, Gallery, Gallery, Atrium, Hallway, Bedroom, Hallway, Kitchen, Hallway, Bedroom. He needed to move to think. The Secret Service hated this practice. Unfortunately for them, President Quirrell was of the view that in a secure democracy there is no harm in alienating one's bodyguards, and he found it a useful outlet.

If there was a way to teleport, he would. But constant motion would suffice. On the way, his mind was churning. Calculating.

Resting on a balcony and breathing short, clipped breaths, President Quirrell came to a conclusion. He scribbled a short note and folded it once, twice, three times, four times, until it was barely there. When he came back, Hermione was sitting up, fiddling with a desk toy in a kind of exhausted daze. She didn't ask him where he'd been.


	3. Plans of Attack

"Everybody wants to rule the world." - Tears For Fears, 1985

An Oval Office meeting. That felt... real.

 _Don't act_ so _surprised,_ Harry thought. _You are the Speaker of the House now._

But he couldn't help himself. After years - no, decades - of plotting world domination, here he was in the Oval Office, to cut a deal with the President of the United States. This was a big moment.

President Quirrell beckoned him in and shook his hand. The President was bony and pale, but his whitish hair was perfectly coiffed and his face was set in an easy grin. His eyes twinkled, but there was a hardness behind them.

 _You can take this guy,_ Harry thought to himself, in perhaps not the most reassuring way.

"Please, sit down, Mister Speaker," the President drawled. Harry sat, back straight, and looked across the Resolute Desk at Quirrell. He crossed his arms.

Quirrell kept smiling. "I'd like to congratulate you on that election, by the way. I was impressed. You are a very talented young man."

Harry pursed his lips. "I hate to correct you, Mr. President, but I think I'm actually older than you," he said.

Quirrell chuckled. "That may be. In any event, you did a fine job. And I think the finest thing about the end of an election like that is that you can drop the pretense of your - contract for America, or whatever it is. This is the part where we get to govern."

Harry was prepared for this. He stiffened his lip. "The voters elected us to do a job, Mr. President. We're going to reduce the size of government, slash the deficit and cut their taxes. That was our promise. I don't know about you, Mr. President, but when I sign a contract, I mean something by it."

That last part might have gone a little too far.

The glint in President Quirrell's eyes hardened. "Do you mean to say you're going to keep me from doing my job, Mr. Verres?"

This was the opportunity. This was the moment. Without betraying anything outwardly, Harry took a mental deep breath.

"Well, Mr. President. I might make your job very difficult for you. Or we could make a deal."

Quirrell's gaze was steady.

Harry took a real deep breath and continued. "Reagan and Tip O'Neill governed together for years. That much is ordinary. I'm asking you for more than that. I want a seat at the table in every policy discussion. And effective veto. The presidency is increasingly irrelevant in our complex world, Mr. President. In public I can make you look good, as much as you want. But in private I will be your equal."

Harry stopped. He had expected Quirrell to interrupt him, but the President was silent. Then, suddenly, without warning, he started to laugh.

Not loudly. President Quirrell sometimes chuckled, and once or twice he had guffawed on television. But this was something else. It was low and rumbling. It didn't sound like his ordinary voice at all. Quinn Quirrell was laughing, hard.

"Mr. President?"

President Quirrell wiped his eye, although it looked like there was nothing there. "No," he creaked. "You're quick. And I know you have plans for this world. But I have plans, too, young man. And you won't win any friends in this town by refusing to pass my legislation. The important stuff, at least. Do you understand that? Because I think you've gotten yourself a little confused. You do _not_ have leverage over me."

"I don't need to make friends here," Harry said, defiantly.

Quirrell looked almost pityingly at him. "Actually," he said, "you do."

Harry stood up and walked to the door of the Oval Office, and summoned up as much coldness as he could find in his heart. "You're going to regret this," he said. And before the President could answer him, he left.

***

Leon Panetta listened carefully, and when President Quirrell was done he rolled his eyes. "Okay, surprise of the year, Harry Verres isn't feeling cooperative. Next you'll tell me Rush Limbaugh had some unkind words for us last night? I mean, really, what were you expecting, Mr. President?"

In the presence of others, in daytime, Quinn Quirrell was still. His face was cool and expressionless, which is to day, relaxed and charming. But to the people close to him it might as well have been a blank mask. "Harry is an idealist. He'll come around to us eventually, one way or another, because he wants to save the world. That's one thing he can't get by tying our hands."

Hermione twirled her pen. "Are you sure about that, Quinn? You seem to think pretty highly of Mr. Verres, who in my opinion is a twerp and a hack. Leon has it right; we might as well have Rush Limbaugh in the Speaker's chair."

Panetta nodded. "She's right. Now, I know that I'm not privvy to all your backup plans, but if you can pull a rabbit out of a hat right now, Mr. President..."

Quirrell shook his head. "There's no rabbit. We'll just push ahead."

***

"We are on the brink of a Republican dream!"

The caucus room was packed. Harry's brow was sweaty, but he felt alive with energy. "Over the next two years, under this president, we will do everything that Reagan couldn't: Real reform of entitlements, real deregulation, real crime control! We're going to finally get the Republican economy we deserve... and we will _ensure_ that Quinn Quirrell get's the whupping that _he_ deserves in '96!" _And_ I _will be in the White House,_ Harry thought, but he didn't say that part out loud.

There were scattered claps (for Harry, hopefully) and a few boos (hopefully for the President). Harry felt like he had them on his side, as he handed the floor to the Majority Leader - old Dick Arney.

"That sounded like a stump speech," Arney said as Harry slapped him on the back.

"A crowd's a crowd," Harry whispered back. But Dick just shook his head.

Oh well.

 _He'll make a fine VP,_ Harry thought. _Or President for a while. However we decide to do it._ The important thing was that everything was going to plan.


	4. Interlude: Negative Partisanship

Two years earlier

"Congressman, I'm honored to have you on the show. And I've got a question for you: What are you, as members of Congress, doing to make sure this administration -- well, frankly, Congressman, to make sure that President Quirrell and his administration are fairly -- that the rule of law is being fairly applied to this administration?"

"That's an excellent question, Rush, and I'm glad you asked it."

Harry knew an opportunity when he saw one. There were some congressmen who would consider it beneath them to make an appearance on AM radio opposite a mud-slinging hack like Rush Limbaugh. Jerry Lewis, for example, wouldn't be caught dead doing anything half as "partisan" and "unstatesmanlike".

One of the first things Harry decided, when he came to Washington, was to totally ignore useless concepts like "dignity" and "statesmanlike" behavior. If appearing on Rush made other Republicans think less of him, well, he'd be happy to get underestimated. Harry had recognized immediately that there were no consolation prizes in the House: all the esteem in the Congress wouldn't be worth diddly-squat if a charming Democrat could come in and knock your voters out from under you next cycle. There was no logical reason that Jimmy Carter might not have gotten cold feet and run in Georgia's sixth in 1976. And if he had? Pow! No more Harry Verres.

It absolutely boggled Harry's mind, left him wanting to _run screaming from the room_ how many Republicans who had lived through Reagan's administration thought that if they were just _friendly_ enough, they could keep getting re-elected forever and ever. That was _exactly the wrong lesson to learn_ from Reagan. What Reagan proved was precisely that there is no cosmic upper limit on charisma. There is always a more lovable guy out there, somewhere, and that means that being lovable is not enough.

"Love cannot drive out love. Only hate can do that." - Richard Nixon

Yes, Harry was quite sure that Richard Nixon had said that. And it was good advice: make sure your voters hate the other guy. Or even better, since the other guy might be arbitrarily lovable, make them hate his party. If your constituents just hate the Democrats enough (or the Republicans, theoretically), you can never lose.

And that was the real reason Harry was on Rush Limbaugh's show.

"Of course, we wish the Demoncr- sorry, Democratic chair of the Judiciary would investigate the so-called suicide of Barty Crouch. We're not holding our breath, though."

Rush gave Harry a friendly wink. "You heard it here first, folks!"

Yes, they had.


	5. Mentors

The floor votes were tallied. He had shaken the President's hand and settled into his big, beautiful Speaker's office. Now it was time for the next phase of Harry's plan: to become the next President of the United States.

 _I can make them all free. All I have to do is execute my plans_ perfectly _, with maximum redundancy, and_ without _letting the president know what I'm doing._

That last part was important. Harry had seen the look in President Quirrell's eyes when they had shaken hands. That man was made of solid steel.

But it was more than that. Plenty of congressmen, and even a few lobbyists, were whipcord-tough. President Bush had been. But President Bush hadn't made his knees knock. President Bush hadn't had those inky blue eyes, the ones that stared into you like the starry void of space...

They would be meeting again, on Friday, for a working lunch on the subject of the president's agenda. His agenda, hahaha. Harry would ensure that there was no agenda.

And he would get to gaze into those deep, blue eyes again. That part would just be a bonus.

***

"I didn't have a chance to give it to you at our last meeting, Mr. Verres, but I have procured a small gift, by way of congratulations for your reaching this office." Quirrell held up a pocket-sized brown notebook, with a leather cover and frayed, decaying edges.

 _He's trying to trigger feelings of obligation and reciprocity,_ Harry thought automatically -- an instinct he hadn't unlearned from the days when, as a little kid, he had thought that you could learn to be Machiavellian by reading a book.

Not knowing what exactly he had been presented with, Harry just raised his eyebrows.

President Quirrell paused dramatically. "This," he said, "is the original diary of Roscoe Conkling."

Harry's jaw dropped.

"Do you know who that is?" Quirrell asked, and then continued, without waiting for an answer. "I'm sure you do, but it will amuse me to tell the story. After that we can discuss my legislative agenda," he added, the ghost of a smile playing around his lips.

Harry didn't entirely appreciate (okay, didn't at all appreciate) being lectured on a subject he was already reasonably familiar with. But (a) this was the president of the United States, and (b) it was Quirrell. Harry would've been enraptured by that rusted-gate drawl and those shining blue eyes even if the topic was basic calculus or corn prices.

Quirrell began, spinning the little book on one if his fingers as he talked.

"Roscoe Conkling was a Radical Republican congressman during the Civil War. An abolitionist. He was a leader in Congress at the end of the war, and helped to draft the Reconstruction amendments that guaranteed certain rights to blacks. The right to vote. The right to be paid for work. The right to equal treatment under law.

"As you might expect, he had less to do in the Johnson administration, and he eventually made a well-advised exit from Congress and joined the private sector. As a clever and famous man after such an illustrious government career, he ended up in a very pleasant job indeed: as a star lawyer for the railroads, those great corporations that were so eagerly gobbling up post-war America.

"Roscoe was an excellent lawyer. Between his years in Congress and his private career this diary would be of historical interest in any event. But it's particularly interesting because of one of his most famous cases; one that he argued before the Supreme Court.

"The Court was interpreting the 14th amendment to the constitution, which guarantees equal protection under the law. Roscoe had an unfair advantage here, because he had helped to write that very amendment. Already it had been applied to blacks only extremely sparingly. But Conkling was at the court to argue a different case: that the amendment was meant to include corporations as well as human beings. Thus, a railroad could not be treated differently from its employees under law. A very helpful doctrine. But a very dubious one -- so one might think.

"But like I said, Mr. Verres, Mr. Conkling had an ace in the hole. He told the Justices of the Supreme Court that in his personal diary, in 1864, he had written that it was Congress's intention that the 14th amendment applied to companies, just as much as human beings.

"This may have sounded like purest nonsense. But it was straight from the horse's mouth, so how could they object? And so corporations were made persons under law. All thanks to Roscoe Conkling."

Quirrell waved the little brown book. "And right here is the diary that Mr. Conkling claimed to cite. What do you suppose it says, Mr. Verres? Even a Republican like yourself can surely guess."

Harry shook his head. "That is an incredibly impressive artifact, Mr. President. But I have to ask you -- why?"

"What an excellent question. What do _you_ think is the moral of that story, Mr. Verres?"

"That's easy. It's one of the most basic lessons we learn as grown-up human beings: Truth is relative. Power is absolute."

The President quirked an eyebrow. "That's very interesting. You see, I took a different lesson: Never lie about a document that you have not yet destroyed."

***

Hermione sat by the fireplace in the Presidential Suite, feeding relatively harmless tax documents into the shredder from her husband's office. Now, if anyone searched the basket for thin strips of paper to glue together into potentially incriminating documents, they wouldn't find it suspiciously empty. Its original contents, of course, had all been burned.

It made her nervous to be this involved. Her hands on the Crouch papers themselves. But Starr's people were closing in, and as her husband always said: Trust no one. Constant vigilance.

***

Flashing her White House ID to the Secret Service agent at the door, Jeanine slipped into the President's empty study. Eyeing the guard, she self-consciously swept the floor and then crawled under his desk to "empty" the shredder. She had been very specifically told that the shredder would be there. She had verified herself earlier that day that it was sitting right where it usually was. Which meant it must have been moved after hours -- by someone with access to the President's study. On tonight, of all nights. And if she had learned anything from her new boss, it was not to believe in coincidences.

Out of earshot of the guard, she finally let herself breathe, then picked up her cell phone to place a call.

Her message was short. "The shredder wasn't there. Ken, I think they know we know."

"But do they know we know they know we know?"

She paused. "No, I don't think so."

"Good. Keep it that way."

_Click._

***

Harry clutched the little brown diary tight as President Quirrell described the broad outlines of healthcare reform. Harry had a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. Maybe that was the feeling that he had finally met his match.


	6. The Deep Sea

Hermione Quirrell collapsed on her canopied bed. Quinn still wasn't back - he must still be meeting with Speaker Verres, she decided. Typical. These meetings were becoming more and more frequent, and went on longer and longer. She could see it in Quinn's eyes when he came back from one of his Oval Office arguments with the Speaker: a glint of triumph, the kind of look he only got when he thought he'd won something that was worth winning.

There had been a time when she'd seen that look a lot more often. She thought back to the campaign, the first campaign, when they'd rattled across Arkansas like two carnival barkers before collapsing, at the end of the day, in the back of the campaign bus or, better yet, in one of those small-town diners where they served the nauseating grits that Quinn had claimed to like so much. He'd stir them with his fork and point out the window at the canopy of Arkansas stars. The way his rasping voice could dance from topic to topic, ice-cold in its certainty but then, finally, warm and gentle, where he let that part of himself show through the cracks. Or so she thought.

"Everyone always thinks they're the center of his world when they talk to Quinn Quirrell," Al had said, once. She hadn't thought that much of it at the time, but these days it danced through her head almost every night.

_Does Harry Verres think he's the center of your world?_

~~~~

Their meeting ended at long last, and Harry shook the President's hand. _A pity I'll have to see you put in prison,_ he thought to himself, almost ritually; but his heart wasn't in it. Quirrell's handshake was strong enough to break a bone, and Harry wished his own pillowy hands could return the favor.

_How did it come to this?_

There was something intoxicating about Quirrell. _Maybe that's how you get to be president,_ Harry thought. But there was even more than that, more than the power and the charisma and the force of the President's bony hands, that kept these meetings more than merely professional. There was something about the way that Quirrell talked about other worlds -- there was a glint of starlight in his eyes. Harry's chief of staff would beg him not to lock the door when it was just him and the President in the room, but some things needed to be done in private. Like probing that starscape.

~~~~

"What happened to Barty Crouch?"

That was a question Hermione had asked him many times -- although less and less often, as the years went by. It was a question Harry hadn't even bothered to ask, almost by unspoken agreement. That subject had been delegated to one Kenneth Starr, and there was no reason to bring it up.

Quinn Quirrell could well remember the night that she asked him most forcefully. It was the night of a terrible, bomb-like thunderstorm over Washington. The hot summer had been shattered by a night of freezing rain that seemed to go on forever. Quinn knew, because he had been out for most of the night. He was still wearing his dark sunglasses, his white-trash visor and the slick black raincoat that drew people's eyes away from the man they would hopefully fail to recognize as their president. Buckets of rainwater poured off of his coat and onto the White House carpet, as if he hadn't done enough damage to the presidential limousine in the same way. Hermione was waiting for him.

He had been ready to give her the news that Barty Crouch was dead, but she had already seen it on the news.

"Did you do this?" she asked. Her eyes were burning clear in a way they rarely did. She was angry.

"I don't control the weather, darling," he said, shrugging off his raincoat and handing it to a staff member. "Let's talk in the residence, huh?"

Hermione said nothing, but stalked silently next to him until they were out of the public area.

When they reached the residence and the Secret Service were on the other side of the door, Hermione let loose.

She whirled on him. "He was my friend too, Quinn! Did you ever think of that? Did it ever occur to you that I might care whether you _killed my friend!?_ "

Quinn tried to calm her. "Nobody killed anybody else, sweetheart. His car went off the road in the rain. They're dragging the lake, but- well, if he was trying not to be found-"

"What are you trying to imply, Quinn?" She was truly angry now.

"Well, Herm, you know as well as I do Barty had been having problems-"

"He was having 'problems' because you and your people were stalking him! Because you couldn't accept that he was working for me!"

"My people weren't stalking him, sweetie, I was trying to protect him. There were serious threats to our friend's life!"

Hermione looked away. "There sure were."

"We'll figure this out together," he said.

She walked to the door. "I'll figure it out all right. I'm not coming with you on the flight to Egypt tomorrow. I have to be here, to look into this. And Quinn, don't you dare try to stop me."

The President sized up his wife. "I don't think this is a healthy obsession, but if you want to embarrass us for the Egyptians and the news networks, that is your decision."

In fact, she came along on the trip. But ever since then, their relationship had been something different. Strained. He didn't think she would stoop so low as to work for Starr, officially or unofficially, but he couldn't discount the possibility entirely. He always acted as if there was a spy in his bedroom.

Verres, ironically, was in some ways a more steadfast companion than his own wife. The young Speaker was so _impressionable_. Hermione, on the other hand, almost certainly knew by now who she was dealing with.


End file.
